


Summer’s Gone

by HomesickAlien



Category: Dragon Quest XI
Genre: Dragon Quest XI Act III Spoilers, Gen, somehow gemma has become my favorite character that gets no screentime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:34:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26675974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HomesickAlien/pseuds/HomesickAlien
Summary: When the world has need of a hero, a hero will descend.And when the world is at peace...
Relationships: Emma | Gemma & Hero | Luminary (Dragon Quest XI)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	Summer’s Gone

**Author's Note:**

> happy one year to the cooler dragon quest 11
> 
> I hope everyone is taking care of themselves as best they can. This is just a fic I wrote for myself, but since there’s no ship it was great to celebrate with ~  
> I dislike using the Character Death tag for writing Spirit stuff, but that applies here so please be careful as always. I’ve tried to write this concept many times, but I’ve been terrible at finishing anything lately... But this game has been in my head so much it’s all I want to write so I hope to find some freetime soon to indulge in this more. For now, I am quite happy with this.
> 
> The setting is Act 2, after the time travel. Time travel opened 100 million doors and I am here to suffer every single silly possibility.

_No bite today either…_

So quietly the stream is humming, so uniquely different from the way it used to be. Though the nostalgic air is unchanging, he’s no longer the child in the spring, anymore. His feelings for this hobby are also quite the same, it’s boring, and dull, and leaves his thoughts to simmer, until they boil over entirely. 

What kind of thoughts filled his grandfather's mind, he’d been far too young to ever really understand. Youthful, and ignorant, just as he’d must of wished for him… That much still remains. There’s nothing more innocent than the dream of being a hero, of saving the world, and after the story book ends, it scatters aimlessly his will while the truth remains buried in his empty chest.

Looking down the clear, sparkling river’s reflection, the scar across his chest outlines a distinct memory that defines his journey. As for now, it lacks a feeling, brings him no pain or joy, but still remains like that mark upon his hand. Two accents of what makes a hero, but without words or answers. 

_Was this the right choice?_ He can not say. _Can I change the future, just like that?_ He can not see it. _Is this what it means, to be a hero?_ The fishing pole never bends, and the sand within the hourglass continues to fall the same as it always has.

Just as a selfish tree wishes, to see the world only she can, in another world that _hero_ would have been him. 

A boy looks down at his hand, over the sparkling water that seems so loud despite its calm flow, and thusly over that reflection that marks a single year’s past since the day the proper puppet had lost his heart. This one hadn’t the voice to argue. He’d never thought once to do it, leaving home with a smile on his face; Even now, still it remains, looking up towards the false Goddess in the sky. This tree is only here for show, in the autumn her leaves will also fall.

A loud dog’s barking takes him out his thoughts. He turns his head with soft eyes, everything that is the same is so different still, but the nostalgia of the moment eases the heaviness in his heart. Pulling up the hook from the river, the boy stands, and the endless wails of the dog slowly fades with the accompany of a young girl's callings. 

“What’s got you so excited now, Sandy?” It’s the same spot everyday, like the awakening of a new routine. Her eyes are as curious as ever, “Why, it’s like you’ve caught wind of a ghost, or something!”

There’s no way, of course not. Those are the fears of children, after all. And this one isn’t dead, anyway, simply caught inbetween the sands of time. He waves kindly, a smile as warm as a family chosen, the same as the one he’d given her as childhood friends. Best friends. Unforgettable friends…

That girl approaches slowly, as if to examine a poisoned well, passing right through him as she looks to her own reflection. There are fish that scatter at her footsteps, rippling the water in a way that that reflection distorts itself, and maybe if she looks hard enough she might remember what’s been lost. A foolish thought, that even if she did, he isn’t the one who can take that place. It’s his fate that’s been stolen from him, after all.

She feels the chill of the wind down her spine, _ah,_ as she looks over to her right there lies an old rod that’s fallen beneath the foliage. 

“...Chalky?”

_Ah, so close!!_

He can’t help grinning, even though it stings a little to be forgotten completely, there’s no other way for his other self to have left otherwise. It must have been a difficult choice, but at least he’d gotten to say goodbye. Even if those words are remembered only by the wind, and the swaying branches of the false Goddess.

She sits off the edge of the earth, her toes barely touching the water. This dreadfully boring hobby, when they were little they were the one’s scaring off the fishes. Her hums that fill the bitter air, they also serve as a means to remember. _Who was it back then? A child the same age as me?_ She hums a little louder, with the dog settling from earlier excitement, into her arms the kindest pet. 

“It must’ve just been me and you, huh, Sandy?”

The boy sighs, giving up on any chance of Gemma recalling him. He sits side by side with her, opposite of Sandy, and lets the afternoon come and go uneventfully. The memory seems to bring on a life of its own, whatever it is that compels people to stop by this old, little broken town. The Hero had given it meaning, but who does so remember the Hero who’s feet no longer walk this time? 

The puppet continues his journey, and the boy echoes the universe.

_Well, caught anything yet?_

It’s a voice that’s almost resonant of Veronica, it’s not a memory meant for him, but he’s got the gist of it’s significance. This is why the other self had abandoned this world, after all. For a precious friend. For a precious family. But was it really his will, or just another burden of being a _hero._

_This is what you’ve set out to do, is it not? To save the world…_

He takes a deep breath, watching patiently for the line to tug. This is what he had wished for, and this is the endless cycle of consequence for action. The world continues to spin. Perhaps, he is happy there, and perhaps he will save the world, but…

_You are no longer a hero._

Was he ever one? Watching a gentle moving butterfly land delicately at the tip of the pole, he wants to ask Her outloud. _Was I ever the luminary?_ He wonders what a difference it would even make. This world is already at peace, this timeline is already fading away.

When one awakes from their long slumber, what becomes of the world of dreams? 

_You are absolutely not a hero._

It’s only a matter of who is sleeping. 

The sudden jolt of the cracking wood catches the boy’s ears. It isn’t his fishing rod that’s caught a bite, but the girl who’d started dozing off at his side— _Hey, come on now!—_ his hands wrap around hers, that spirit pulling her out from her daze. 

“I actually caught one?!”

She’s as shocked as he is, waiting for the eternal catch, the fish finally bites the line, and pulling with all the strength they can muster that line flies out with a heavy splash of the water alongside it. The two both fall back, although the boy is the first to recover, crawling over to where the line ends is...

……

_There’s nothing here._

It must be the end of the line, for him. For the boy who was not the luminary at all, but just another leaf spinning with the wind. To struggle is only to waste the bait, for the fish that gets away leaves the fisher with nothing but a dent in their pride.

As in fishing, so in life.

_It’s time for the hero to wake up._

He feels a comforting bump against his forehead, of the heavy staff of the reflection of his old comrade. Of Veronica. This world can’t be sustained with two hearts missing, it will just keep losing more and more sand.

That’s right, it’s time to…

_I still haven’t caught anything in my line, yet._

The spirit’s of heroes are naturally stubborn. It’s necessary for them to be; born with the will of a Goddess, born with the drive to save the world…

Of course, even their descendants burn with the same love in their grasp. 

The boy who is not a hero smiles brightly, with the fishing pole high over his shoulder. _As in fishing, so in life, isn’t that right?_ As confident as the Goddess Herself, he’ll be patient until this world finds a need for him again. Until the Hero can manage to save the world, or until the line calls for him.

Surely, that will is what makes a true hero, a luminary, a light upon a falling time… 

“Ah, Eleven!” Just as the boy turns his back, the voice of Gemma stops him in his tracks. 

“That was his name, wasn’t it? How could I forget, there must have been a boy like that here once, right Sandy?”

Of course, a dog can not respond, if they could even recall at all, but the gentle bark that escapes seems to give Gemma some solace. For the boy named Eleven as well, it’s almost a success.

_Yes… That was my name, wasn’t it?_

“I wonder where he did go off to… On some big old grand adventure without me, isn’t it?”

_I’m right here._

“Unfair, wouldn’t you say, Sandy?”

Another pitiful bark, of dual acknowledgements. Well, it’s a start at least, and perhaps the hero wasn’t so perfect. And now, two times are spinning their threads in unison, he hopes the others will accept his other self as much as these ones will accept his memory. That’s all he has to strive for, patient as the ocean waves. He isn’t the hero, after all, _I am just the one called Eleven._

Nothing more, nothing less.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks, be safe, take care.


End file.
